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We the problematic folk with the hair and eyes. The long legs and arms, with the brain too swollen to understand.

We are witty at times and clueless at others. Our soul begs for the attention we need and affection we crave.

We are us. Fighting, loving, and surviving.

We are dogs. Sniffing, trying, and rolling in our waste.

We are savages. Killing, torturing, and lying.

We are saints. Speaking, understanding, and telling.

We, the people, are intellectual. We’re not idiots, but we pretend to be. Some are lazy and some are productive. Some are black and some are white. Some have blue, some have green eyes.

One’s missing a left hand, the other a right toe. One can’t speak, the other can’t see. Some spend the day working, some sleeping.

One controls, the other slaves.

This is how we, the humans, define life.

Problematic, silly, knowledgeable humans.

Everyday we wake up to a new beginning. Some take it, some leave it the way it was 365 days ago. It’s understandable – we have distinct flaws that make us up. Each and every one is us, we are us. And us, as a group, are wonderful, magical, and capable babies.

Stay human.

I really have no particular meaning to this drabble, you guys. I just felt like writing a few things before heading over to the bookstore for some research on some pieces I’m writing. So, humans, hope you liked it.

Wake up today. Feed the dog. Kiss your spouse out the door. Buy a new phone. Poke at the touchscreen until it works under your warmth. Tolerate your child’s humour as you become the laughingstock of all the technophobic people. Give up trying to send a text. Throw it in the trash. Buy a flip phone as you curse Apple out. Problem solved.

So, we’re reading To Kill a Mockingbird beautifully put down to words by Harper Lee in my English classes. Definitely a classic I’ve avoided terribly, but turns out little people, I’ve come around to liking it. Truthfully, if Lee had went out on a limb and wrote a few more books, I would gladly read each and every one of them. Her character description… okay, I won’t go into my “critic” mode, but you get the point: I’m liking what I’m reading. Favourite character is definitely Atticus Finch. I think I might just inspire a few characters off of him. Anyway, here’s a little response to poor Mr. Tom Robinson… (it was actually a journal assignment entry for the book, but why not share it with you all?)

Tom Robinson

They don’ like us.

None o’ us.

They think we’re devils and cavemen and murderers. Better us to die than a horse. Better anything bad happen to us than to anything else. That’s what they say. I here ‘em. Everyday.

The cell is cool and damp by this hour. The sky looks darkened and worn out from where I sit, and it kind of reminds me of… me. Dark and worn out. I bring my right hand up to my lips and chew on a nail as my eyes stay locked on the stars that are barely visible through the ‘lil window on the wooden door. I take a moment to look down at my bony hand – scraped, bruised, and slightly darker than the rest o’ the darkness that curses by body.

I grimace, my face morphing into pain. I want to scrape it all off; peel my body away and be left with red throbbing muscle and veins. I’m going to die because of my colour – because of the sinful black I carry. I want to ask why, but they beat me down as an answer.

I can’t yell them to stop. I can’t fight back. Because I’m way too damn black to be recognized as a person. And I tell you, that’s the truth. The whites, no matter how dirty some are, will be the kings, the queens, and princes. We are nothing but items that they manipulate into work. They bend us into how they think we should be… because we ain’t human, right?

We’re not.

But sometimes, I look up to God and wonder:

Why do we look so alike?

Well, I’ll end it there, mates. I guess I tried to add a bit of American slang (I guess? It’s a bit swingy—right?) So, there’s Tom Robinson… right before his trial. Grieving about his life and skin as Atticus sits right outside his cell. Atticus. I really like him. I really really do. So, yes. I assume I’ll get deeper in stories and try to post a few parts of poems.

Thanks, all.

Read a book. Improve your literacy. Write a poem. Love it. Share it. Have it published in a cheap old pamphlet. Buy a bunch for your family and coworkers. Watch as they grin awkwardly and slip the piece of paper in their secret stash of trash. Hug them twenty years later when you’re Stephen King even though they disgraced your art two decades ago. Be smug. Point out your books. Tie them to a chair as they read every single one of them.

She looks at the stranger. Carefully, she examines. The straightness in his dark hair seems unnatural but still well kept. His eyes sparkle with hazel, as if emitting light on their own like the moon that slowly stalks them from afar. He can’t do a thing to her. Not unless he wants trouble.

The white saucer is a witness to anything that’ll happen. At least that’s what she hopes. She doesn’t know a single thing about this man, but she followed him out of the club anyway. She’d do anything to get away of the stench of vomit and alcohol.

And there they are, sitting on the roof of some car. She isn’t even sure if it’s his or not. But people back in that club wouldn’t bother to care if they started making out on their property. They’re too drunk and dazed to worry.

The girl has no business there. As an adolescent, she says she wants to experience the nightlife for once on New Years Eve. And so far, it sucks. She’s sitting on a car with a dude she met half an hour ago. He bought her a drink with abandoned, harmless eyes. She doesn’t give a crap about his past or what he wanted to do with her. She just wants a soul next to her as the fireworks go off. Whether a rapist or drunkard, she sits with him. The ground, it seems, slowly rocks back and forth to the hard bass coming from the club. As people go in and out of the building, she can hear the screams of laughter and the incomprehensible rap music that swallows the crowd up.

Her nose crinkles and she hates it.

The man next to her isn’t even a man. He looks barely her age and carries that sense of loneliness in his calm eyes. He doesn’t look like a molester. The girl thinks. Anything ski related on a guy makes them a rapist. She doesn’t see a single article of clothing related to snow on his persona. She sighs.

“Come here often?” he speaks smoothly, the drink he’d had earlier showed no affect on his conversation.

“No.” the girl says simply, clasping her hands together. “Just for New Years.”

The guy nods and looks down onto the scratched and worn out red hood beneath his feet.. “Me too. I was dared by my friends. They say I don’t get out much.”

The girl laughs, her brown hair flows with the wind. “Ain’t that a truth. New Years was mainly bingo and late Christmas movies in my family.”

“That’s the life,” he smirks. “Hey, you cold? It’s getting windy out here.”

“If you ask me to go to your place, I’ll straight up slap you.”

He chuckles. “Don’t worry, I don’t think I’m playing bases tonight.”

The girl nods. “Good. I just want that damn ball to drop and go home.”

“Go home now.” he suggests. “You don’t wanna be out on your own with a bunch of dangerous men on the streets. What’s a little girl like you doing out here anyway?”

She scowls. “Little girl? Boy, you’re getting cocky aren’t ya? And to answer your question, my life is too empty for me to do anything else on this useless day. I’ll just waist away in bars like any other loner.”

“No boyfriend?” his brows rises.

“No girlfriend?”

“No,” they both say monotonously, but soon laugh at their misery.

“Hey,” he lifts up a hand and clenches his fingers into a fist. “New Year’s resolution number uno.” he extends his hand to her. “Get a partner.”

“You implying I’m lesbian?”

The guy starts to laugh, the girl joins in soon enough. She extends her fist to his and they fist-bump right as the countdown starts. The people from the bar start yelling out numbers obnoxiously as the big TV counts from ten and down.

Ten seconds later, the ball drops from New York, sending the world into 2013. The duo on the car watch; mesmerized by the amount of light a fire cracker can conjure. The night sky illuminates in a rainbow of colours before the sounds of gunshots. Boom, boom, boom, The crackers go off to the point where the two have to cover their ears, laughing to their heart’s content.

January 1, 2013. The year of new joy, love, and chances.

Happy New Years, all… and may this be the start of my first blog. EVER.

Meet someone new today. Hold a door open. Give a dollar to the homeless. Laugh at a cartoon. Buy a piano. Knock coffee all over the keys. Sell the piano. Instead, buy a violin. Screech on the strings until your neighbor willingly pays you to get lessons. Next thing you know, you’re Joshua Bell.

As a young writer, I’m climbing the steps of the literary arts as I look for ways in which I can spend more time writing. So, why not start a little blog and… just write? Followers apparently inspire, so it’ll be a good start to my future. Maybe publish a few books on the side… who knows? I guess we’re starting now.